


Deliverance

by Lucifer_Rosemaunt



Series: Let's Rewrite Our History [2]
Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-12
Updated: 2014-04-12
Packaged: 2018-01-19 02:15:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1451734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucifer_Rosemaunt/pseuds/Lucifer_Rosemaunt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Let’s Rewrite Our History Assumption #10: Erik’s mother had a better reaction to his face. A well-adjusted yet still persecuted Erik who deals with anger a little better than one would expect. Maybe. Most of the time. ErikRaoul pre-slash/gen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deliverance

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I have my doubts as to choosing this particular moment in this lroh, but I think it came out well enough. I suppose. Also, who doesn’t want to title a fic after a movie about the backwoods where bad stuff happens? It’s not that kind of story though if you’re concerned. 
> 
> Story note: Truly. Erik’s first scrap of clothing just so happens to not be a bag for his head. His mother cries but realizes that she cannot abandon nor hate her child and she does her best. It’s probably not the greatest and she’s still here somewhere in the background of this story (who Erik’s supporting) but she means well. And, it’s better than the nothing that would have ruined Erik in the long run. He actually seems… normal in this fic.

o.o.o.o

With promises of meeting once more having been made, Raoul ran from the beach, laughing joyfully and not caring how his behaviour garnered stares from the strangers he passed. He held out his arms and taking a deep breath leaned forward and ran faster, so fast that everyone else in the world became just a blur quickly come and gone. He relished the wind in his hair and the droplets of water that rolled off of the clothing that still stuck to his skin, off of his fingertips. He chased his shadow, and glancing at it, he wiggled his fingers and thought he looked like a bird. He could be a bird. He could do anything in this moment. He could fly. He flapped his arms once and jumped, laughter carrying him into the sky.

His flight was short-lived, disturbed by a cacophony of violence. Shouts pulled his thoughts from the clouds and the epithets he could pick out closed the feathers that were once his fingers into fists. The landing was rough, his feet pounding the cobblestone and damp hair flopped onto his face. Lowering his arms, he ground his feet onto the stone and slowed just enough to turn down the backstreet towards the group of men by a lone cart of wares.

He wondered where the disapproving onlookers were now that they could perhaps provide assistance but discarded that thought quickly. He was enough to confront them, even though for some reason, he could not seem to get his legs to propel him forward fast enough. The cart shuddered as the small mob tried to tip it over and Raoul pressed his toes harder into the ground. There was not a single doubt in his mind that he could stop them and so he yelled just that.

“Stop!”

His voice was lost to the clash of porcelain and wood tumbling down.

He could see a sole individual trying to tear the others away, grasping at their clothes only to be rebuffed with knuckles and feet. The man had to be the cart’s owner. He was the only one who had turned to look when he called, the only one who had listened to Raoul’s command and stopped what he was doing.

The cart trembled, wheels bowed outwards, struts splintered, and Raoul was almost there to stop it all. He leapt, aiming for the man closest to him, intent on taking them one by one if necessary. He jerked to a halt as he was caught midair and swung away from his path just as the cart tipped over with a crash. All of the wares scattered across the street and shortly thereafter with cruel guffaws, sneers, and parting threats, the men who had committed the cruelty scattered as well now that their task had been accomplished.

Raoul hung limply in the man’s grasp, feet not even touching the ground as he stared forlornly at the devastation strewn across the cobblestone. So close, it was a sight that pained him deeply because he could truly witness the greatness of what had once been: a vast variety of toys and delicate figurines, masks and music boxes.  

“I could have stopped them,” he whispered to himself, not a thought spared to chasing them now that the deed had been done. It would not undo the damage.

The man took several steps away from the cart before lowering Raoul to the ground. Still, Raoul was drawn back. He crouched to pick up an object that seemed to have somehow remained intact. Though it was heavier than he expected, he gently held what turned out to be a full mask. He stared at it in confusion for a moment trying to place whether it was simply a stylized man or a particular animal. The mask was not oval, rather the mouth was drawn down and outwards to a point. Gold beads outlined the teardrop shape and accented the brow and below the eyeholes. Dyed a royal blue, a latticework of green and gold, lines of various widths turned in and on itself in intricate patterns painted on the forehead and, travelling down the side of the mask, the color gradually transitioned to a deep red ending in sharp points on the cheeks. Near the point at the bottom, the blue darkened to a navy so opaque it looked black.

“You are getting it wet, boy.”

The voice drew him from his musings and he finally turned around.

“I did not pull you away from this mess only for you to injure yourself.”

Raoul stared first at his bare feet and toes covered in remnants of sand as well as dust and dirt then at the shards that littered the ground before glancing up at the cart owner. The man wore a mask himself; even though it was plain white and only covered half of his face, it was striking in its simplicity, even more so when juxtaposed by the equally handsome face that was its counterpoint. Raoul’s grasp tightened on the mask he held. It was art and it was beautiful. The craftsman, for that was surely what the man had to be, was around Philippe’s age. He dressed in coarse clothing that looked to be handmade. His hands were calloused and his skin tanned. It was obvious that he toiled for his merchandise and that thought drew Raoul’s attention back to the chaos he had not prevented. He did spare a moment to wonder at a man who did not appear as upset by such persecution and loss of his livelihood as Raoul was on his behalf. In fact, the craftsman looked more bemused than anything.

Still, he ducked his head in shame before holding out the mask. “I apologize, Monsieur. I had meant to help.”

The man sighed and took a breath before retorting, “That much was obvious. What exactly did you think you would accomplish careening down the street as you did?”

Raoul hugged the mask to his chest when it was not taken from him. He stared down at it. From this angle, the lattice on the forehead looked like scales. “Why. I would have stopped them,” he replied honestly.

The man laughed, perhaps not unkindly, but Raoul could not tell since his expression had been hidden as he walked past to begin the tedious process of picking up what could be salvaged.

The craftsman gingerly picked up a single glass rose, its stem snapped off before he asked, “And what is the name of who was to be my champion?”

Staring intently at the floor, being cautious of his steps as he followed him, he replied proudly, “Raoul de Chagny, Monsieur” even though he was almost certain that the man had used the word ‘champion’ teasingly.

“Raoul de Chagny,” the craftsman repeated to himself slowly. “Such a name,” he commented as he placed the rose back on the ground before moving forward.

“And you?” He could not help but wonder.

“Me?” The man scoffed and said with obvious derision, “I would be no man’s champion.” He glanced over his shoulder, the unmasked side of his face in view and Raoul thought he could see a smirk. His tone lightened when he added, “A boy’s I suppose.” He turned his attention back to the task at hand, eyes scanning each item.

There was no forthcoming response and Raoul resigned himself to not receiving one. Adults were always so peculiar about what questions they would answer. He was distracted from his disappointment when he saw another object that looked to be unharmed and as he bent to pick it up, he was stopped by the man himself.

“Erik,” the craftsman stated simply and grabbed the wooden box from Raoul’s hands.

“That would not have harmed me,” he commented but allowed the box to be taken. It was simple, but the wood had been smoothed to feel like marble beneath his fingertips. Paris’ skyline had been carved on the lid and Raoul could not wait for the day when he would be able to see the grand city for himself.  

Erik turned the keepsake box over several times in his hands, inspecting it closely. Eventually, he held it out to him. “If you wish to help, do not touch anything besides what I give you and watch where you step.”

Raoul had to look up to meet his eyes, which he found to be a shade of green that was reminiscent of the color on the mask he held. Solemnly, he held out a hand and nodded, agreeing, albeit unhappily, with his instruction. “I wish to help, Monsieur Erik.”

The older man scrutinized him for a long moment and Raoul wondered what he was looking for, fidgeting under that gaze. Whatever it had been, he must have found it because he placed the box in his hand, then turned to continue his slow journey through the debris.

Raoul trailed after him and held whatever the older man deemed safe enough. They could so very easily finish this task in no time if only Erik would let him truly help, but Raoul did as he asked and restrained himself from picking anything up himself, following the path that the masked man cleared for him. He found his gaze drifting from the ground and up at him more often times than not. The man was certainly strange and gruff but not unkind, and it was fascinating what he deemed salvageable. Raoul made a game of it and found his guesses were often wrong. On the other hand, he would have probably tried to salvage it all.

“You are not from here,” Erik suddenly said as they shuffled past wooden horses and miniature houses. So many different types of masks had been destroyed; paint and dye on porcelain puzzle pieces that would never be assembled again seemed to taunt Raoul.

“Neither are you,” he replied. It would have been pointless to have responded any other way since it had not been a question.

Erik paused just so he could raise an eyebrow and Raoul grinned before explaining.

“Those… ruffians.” He wrinkled his nose upon thinking of them and took a moment to word his response properly and without the vulgarities he had heard. “They told you to continue on your way.”

“You,” Erik appraised him, eyes narrowing as he spoke, “are quite observant.”

He shrugged and shifted the items in his hands, adjusting the makeshift sling from the shirt he wore to hold it more securely. “One cannot help but always remember unkind words spoken.”

“And you?”

He looked up in surprise, having rather expected another one of those abrupt silences that seemed to punctuate their conversations.

Erik elucidated, “Did you fall in the ocean or were you pushed?”

Raoul laughed and momentarily lost himself in memory of earlier that day. “A pretty girl lost her scarf and I retrieved it,” he explained proudly.

“Had she been ugly,” Erik asked almost immediately, “would you have done the same?”

His tone was more serious than Raoul thought it should be. He looked at the older man in confusion but answered all the same. “I did not see her until after I had retrieved the scarf. I had only heard her cry of dismay.”

And when he expected Erik to respond, the older man turned instead. Raoul did not mind the silence this time. It allowed him a moment to wonder at the bewildering turn their exchange had taken. He could find no explanation however and instead let himself return to lamenting the beauty around him that had been destroyed. There was a particularly striking figurine of an angel that Erik simply left laying pitifully on the ground. One of its wings as well as part of its head had been broken but somehow both arms as they strained up towards the sky had remained intact. It seemed merciless to leave it as such.

When he looked up to say as much, he realized that he had been standing motionless while Erik had made his way to the cart. The man was already working on righting it. Raoul chased after him, gingerly skipping over shards of porcelain and splinters of wood as he looked for a clear space to lower the saved wares from his arms to the ground. When he finally was able to place them down and run to help, the cart needed only the barest of pulls before it was righted. It wobbled and one of the struts was split in half but Erik did not seem to care as he dusted it off. He nodded and deeming it good enough to hold items, motioned to Raoul to start loading it once more.

He ran to the pile immediately. “Monsieur Erik,” he could not help but finally state, “you truly do have the most amazing merchandise.” He placed a puzzle cube down on the cart quickly but abruptly stopped when something caught his eye. He bent down to pick up an item that had been trapped beneath the cart. It was a music box adorned with an organ monkey whose left arm hung limply at his side. He wound it and laughed in triumph when it still played music. He looked up only to find Erik watching him with an inscrutable expression that made him look away in embarrassment. He distracted himself by noting everything they had _not_ saved.

“I am sorry though.”

“Sorry?” Erik followed his gaze. “You are not the one who did this.”

Slowly, Raoul tried to explain why he needed to apologize as he glanced at the monkey’s one good arm move. He had no skill with the arts, could do nothing more than appreciate the paintings and sculptures which decorated his home that his father painstakingly and so critically chose. It was not for lack of trying, but his own hands were lame, just as useless as the monkey’s broken arm, to such industry and _how_ he wished to be able to create something with his own two hands, to take something common and have it transcend its so very present restrictions. How he wished to conceal ordinariness and even inadequacies with artistry. “Can I not be sorry all the same for having not stopped it?”

“No.” The answer was abrupt and Raoul flinched. Erik continued in the same tone and Raoul realized he was not angry with him, “You have no leave to be sorry for, or in response to, men who feel no such emotion.”

He grinned to himself then, realizing he had been mistaken. Perhaps Erik _was_ more angry at what had happened than he expressed. “Then…” he thought, “May I be angry on _your_ behalf?”

The corner of Erik’s lip twitched and he huffed. “Yes, you may.” He looked away and up to the sky as several birds flew overhead. “Should you not be rushing off? It is nearly nightfall and I am certain there are people waiting for your return. I am quite able to finish here.”

Raoul glanced at the darkening sky, but he was more interested in the song that was slowing to an end. “May I purchase this?” He held the music box up.

“After I fix it.” Erik reached to take it but Raoul pulled away.

He clutched it to himself. “I want it as it is.”

“Why would you want a broken music box?” the craftsman retorted but did not try to grab it from him.

Still, Raoul turned slightly to make it more difficult if he did try. “I want to remember.”

Without any hesitance, Erik cuffed him over the head. “Give it here.” He held out his hand as Raoul ducked beneath a free arm. “You can remember just fine after I fix it. Come back tomorrow. I will not allow anyone to own such a disgrace.”

Raoul looked at him suspiciously, expecting another reprisal for his reluctance, but he eventually relinquished the music box, pouting. “You _will_ be here tomorrow though, right?” he asked hopefully, not knowing if Erik would consider leaving after having experienced such abuse.

“Yes.” He nodded. He inspected the monkey’s arm to see how much time it would take to fix it and when he looked up, noticed that Raoul was still present. The boy had stopped mid-turn and seemed caught as he stared at what remained on the ground. The setting sun spilled through the trees, casting spoiled beauty, jagged edges, and shattered whimsy in a burned auburn. The long shadows flickered and waved as the trees danced in the wind.

“Oh champion o’ mine,” Erik called and the pitiful expression on Raoul’s face transformed to one of disorientation and then joy when he registered what he had been called.

“Monsieur.” He bowed his head slightly.

“Away with you,” Erik urged. “The night is young and there are yet others to be saved.”

Raoul graced him with poorly contained joy in the form of a smile before obeying his command.

He would leave. And as he started his way home, as his feet departed from the ground, as he raised his arms once more, he thought only of his return in the morning to damaged but not unfixable creation and he flew.

o.o.o.o

End ficlet

A/N: Don’t forget to R/R (Read and Review)!  
Fic Review: Yes, this is from when Raoul’s 12 and he saves Christine’s scarf from the sea. On his way home actually from meeting her that very first time and Erik goes and waylays his path to tales of the north and picnics in the attic.

In my head, I call this the one where both of them manage to intrigue the other in under five seconds and manage to remain intriguing no matter how much time they spend together (and time they do spend).

I like how Erik didn’t tell him that he would have failed in stopping the men from tipping his cart. I honestly think that in a later time, he will find those men and pretty much kick their asses. He’d been outnumbered and he’d had a boy to save from injuring himself.

Erik here… how do I explain it? He’s experienced both kindness and hatred – not in equal measures, but sometimes all it takes is one person’s kindness to offset a world that seems to hate you. So, while Erik is able to hate rather… proficiently, there are moments when he finds someone he can be kind to (rare occurrence as that is) or at least tolerate them long enough to fool a boy into thinking they’re friends. (He also saves kittens when no one’s looking. XD Just kidding on that. He might?)

Also, barefoot Raoul (who still has the ‘second son syndrome’) following Erik like a duckling is all kinds of awesome.


End file.
